


thanksgiving at 221b

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock attempts Thanksgiving dinner. Prompt from Tumblr. Shameless fluff/domesticity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thanksgiving at 221b

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK; keep in mind, this was a prompt.

"Sherlock?" Smoke drifted towards him as he hit the landing; filled the air with a thick smog, not unlike the one that hung permanently over the streets of November London, just outside the frozen window panes. "Sherlock! Sherlock, I think there's a fire--something's on fire!"

John ducked through the door; came to the kitchen. "Sherlock--" he halted; stood still as black smoke eased into his lungs; filled his face, and left him hacking. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell--"

"Ah, John." The detective's voice came through the smoke; his long form folded into view, and he waved the smoke away from John's face with thin hands. "There you are." He was smiling, his face pleased, and he took John by the arms; led him deeper into the kitchen. His voice was slightly harsh, but relaxed. No emergency, then. John scowled; coughed, and fought against the pull.

"Sherlock, the flat smells like a forest fire. What have you been doing?"

"Dinner!" His flatmate exclaimed; clapped his hands together, and looked pleased with himself. John stared; his eyes widened as his mind slowly connected the dots.

"Dinner...?" He repeated slowly; cleared his throat, and stepped further into the kitchen. He searched out the window above the sink, and pulled it open, sweeping the smoke out with short waves of his hands.

"Of course, John." Sherlock sighed; turned to grab two half-filled wine glasses, red contents swishing dangerously. "It is Thanksgiving, yes?" He handed one of the glasses to his flatmate; cracked a smug smile. "Do try to keep up, John." He chuckled; leaned against the counter, and smiled.

"Right..." John sighed; straightened his shirt, and cradled the glass in his hand. "Forgot the day." He frowned; looked around. "And this... is dinner?" He swallowed, apprehensive.

"Of course!" He said again; gestured to the stove. "Turkey's done." John grimaced.

"Ah... smells... er, fantastic..." He tried, he really did, but Sherlock saw through his ruse immediately. He set his glass on the counter; scowled.

"I tried my best, John." He sounded defensive; folded his arms across his chest. John smiled; chuckled.

"I know," He stepped forward; rubbed Sherlock's arm gently. "I think cooking just... isn't your thing." Sherlock looked offended, then sagged.

"Damn."

John chuckled; pressed a light kiss against the detective's cheek. "You can't be great at everything, Sherlock."

"I most certainly can!" Sherlock shot back, his expression insulted once more; sounding very much like a petulant child. John smiled, and slipped an arm around the taller man's waist.

"Of course you can." Another kiss, this one on the lips; this one wiping away the scowl, and easing it into a smile. "Now," John leaned away, and rubbed the small of Sherlock's back. "Get a takeaway?"

Sherlock cast an eye at the stove; at the black smoke currently leaking from behind the door, and nodded. "Chinese?"

"Chinese sounds perfect." John replied; leans past the other man to shut off the oven.


End file.
